I have many things to say, and I’m not sure that my brain cells will last long enough to get them all down. They’re running on reserve battery, and I know you feel me. Moving has a half-life of about forever. Every time you make that last trip, there’s still one more carload left behind. I helped Lala with her apartment tonight, and I feel badly that I was too tired to make more than one trip, but it just wasn’t safe for me to drive in this weather any more than that. My brain, after firing at high speed for twelve hours without a break (sat on the busy radio board at work today, and oh, my god, they worked me over), really feels like a sponge. I understand spongey brain matter. Squish. I think I can hear it.
And I have a couple of things to say about traffic and tailgaters (don’t I always?).
To the tailgaters of this world:
You are morons. All of you. What you don’t understand is that the more sensible of us drivers will actually increase the space between our cars and the car in front of us if you are on our ass. That way, and I know you’ve never thought of this, when you hit us at high speed because you WON’T BE ABLE TO STOP if you’re right behind us, at least we only get rear end damage because we’ve left enough damn space in front! Doesn’t that piss you off? Know what? We know it pisses you off. And the more you flash your brights at us for leaving space in front of us (still going at the exact same speed as the car in front of us, mind), we revel in your ridiculous fury.
And know what else? You know how you always feel like you just can’t pass, and that the whole world is against you? You know how you feel like the car in front of you and the car next to it JUST WON’T MOVE OVER, and you can’t get around, and it must be a conspiracy? It might be. We sensible drivers DO pace each other to block morons like you and piss you off more, from time to time. Yep. It’s fun, too. Back off, and we’ll be nice.
This is true in many things.
In other, happier news, the house is coming along. Lala is being a saint in accommodating my anal need for order in common areas, and I just adore her for it.
But. Heh. Ahem.
I have to tell you about this. We were driving down this hill, and saw a guy selling things on the sidewalk. You know us, we lurve sidewalk things, so we stopped. A nice guy named Fred was selling interesting antiques, and giving good prices to the locals. I found the strangest little silent butler, seen here:
It’s an ashtray. Three bucks. Yep. Your servant would hold this out to you to collect your ash, and it has a spinning wheel on it. Coolest thing ever, only why?
Then, we saw it. It was one of those "look at THAT" moments. I realized, in a matter of moments, that we were saying that phrase VERY differently.
Lala, reverentially, "Look at THAT…." Almost whispered.
Me, loudly and crudely, "Look at THAT!!!" Holy crap! WTF!?
She had to have it. I thought it would look quite fine in her room. But her room has no room, so it ended up here:
Wouldja look at that.
Somehow, I grew fond of it within the first two hours. It’s like if Lala owned the ugliest dog in the world (which she doesn’t, her dogs are gerjess). I would love it, because she loved it. But wow. (Aside: That dog? Sam? I love that dog. Somehow, I’m obssessed with him. I know he’s no longer with us, and that’s sad. He’s frikken cool.)
Also, we got the side table it’s resting on and the coffee table seen below for $20.
Camellias ours. From the front yard. Dude. We have lemons in the back. It’s good.
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